Krieger
by argentia-writes
Summary: A lone figure sits on a snowy battlefield, dressed in dark rags, with barely a glint of golden hair visible under his black hood.
1. Chapter 1

The battlefield surged with soldiers, clashing from all sides. Shouts and screams and the clang of metal and cracks of gunshots rang out in the freezing air, stinging skin like sharp blades of ice. The sounds interrupted the stillness of the winter plain, white with a blanket of snow. The snow was no longer pure- it was marred with furrows and holes and deep crimson stains of blood. Bodies in thick wool uniforms littered the white ground.

A single figure sat in a wide clearing. Fighting continued far in front of them, but they were oblivious to the chaos. The figure, little more than a black silhouette, was hunched over, their outline ragged from torn clothes. The small figure flinched as an L-shaped black object fell in the snow next to them.

Their head despondently turned up to look at the thrower of the object. A tall masculine figure in the clothing of a high-ranking officer glared down emotionlessly at them. The taller figure hissed out a short, guttural word. For any stranger to the smaller figure, they would have thought that the word had no effect.

But, to the closer man, his word certainly did have an effect. The smaller figure's head rose up ever so slightly.

From his vantage point, the figure's eyes looked up into the distance at the ongoing battle.

Deep golden eyes, with heavy dark circles dusted under them, glared up at the fight with unbridled, passionate wrath, crazed with a fury envied by the worst of demons of Hell.

The figure drew itself up to its full height, within inches of the taller man's height, though it had a more lithe build. The silhouette threw back its ragged dark hood, revealing long gold hair pulled up into a plait. The silhouette reached its grey-gloved hands out in front of it, and clapped them together.

A shrieking, metallic ring sounded from the point of contact.

From its hands blue electricity sparked. The figure made a noise that could be interpreted as something similar to a laugh, but closer to a grunt. A bitter grin split the figure's dirty face, as it parted its hands and slammed them to the ground.

Cobalt electricity exploded around them.

Behind them, the taller, stockier man turned away, though his black eyes stayed centred on the foreground, as if he wanted to look away, but couldn't.

The smaller figure's face was harshly lit by the blue light, highlighting an unreadable expression between grimness , satisfaction, sadness, and something the taller man couldn't name.

This was not an expression that belonged on the face of a child.


	2. Chapter 2

War drums, war chants, mournful choirs wailing in archaic languages over the misfortune and lament of man…

Screams and cries and explosions and the clang of metal, the lonely sobs of a child left without a home…

 _He_ did this. This carnage, this hopelessness, this destruction. He caused this.

It was his fault.

It was all his fault.

_000_br /

What the populace doesn't see is the haunted looks in the veterans' eyes.

The people don't see the blood on their hands that they can never seem to wash away. The blood has stained them.

Empty eyes, bloodied hands, burning bodies, massacre, what do they know of this? What have they been told?

Only families see the deep repercussions.

There aren't enough victims left for the victim's families to watch scars attempt heal over, ugly and unforgivingly painful. The scars still grow and score furrows through the nation's people.

In this grief, in this aftermath, a golden-haired child soldier's difficulties fade into obscurity.

Just as the light in his eyes did.

_000_

The man said he'd never do something like it again. He had caused too many families to be ripped apart. He had destroyed too many cities and ended too many lives.

Yet here he was again, reeling from the orders he had to obey.

At least this time it didn't qualify as genocide. Only a battle on two sides.

No one was counting the civilian causalities. If they did, something tells the man that the nation's collective outrage could send him to the gallows.

He deserves worse.

_000_

He doesn't wear red any more.

It reminds him too much of blood-stained snow.

Black was more fitting. Black was the colour of mourning.

_000_

The girl waits.

She doesn't know that only a husk will come home to her.

He won't say anything to spite her rage.

His voice is gone. Stolen.

Her voice will cry out for an answer to her questions.

Just what new hardship has blackened his soul while he was away?

His soul wasn't blackened, as she will think. There is only a fragment of what used to be.

_000_

Far away, the ghosts of the child soldier and his brother's past call out for the return of their son.

They call out for what has been stolen.

The light in his eyes. His voice. His laughter.

They call out for what has died.

His laughter. His voice. The light in his eyes.

One voice rises high above the rest.

It weeps for the fate of its sons.

One is alone. One is little more than a shell.

And still the blood runs into the snow.

With the falling of each drop, something deep down inside the child soldier succumbs to the darkness.


End file.
